Date: Mon, 15 Sep 2008 19:05:48 +0000
From: Toppo Potto <banana-dino@hotmail.co.uk>
Subject: The Security Guard

There are plenty of people with an unusual area of specialisation that
comes from a holiday or student job. Thanks to two summers spent working in
Madame Tussauds when he was in his late teens, my brother's quirky area of
expertise is Victorian murderers. Neil Cream, Dr Crippen, Adelaide
Bartlett: he knows them all. Despite an absence of interest in finance, my
mother can advise on how most convincingly to fill in a credit application,
as a consequence of her first summer job, back in the seventies, processing
handwritten forms for Rediffusion Ltd from young couples wanting to buy
their first colour TV.

Mine is arthouse cinema. I mean, I'm not actually terribly interested in
it, to be honest, but I can tell you that "Jules et Jim" has a running time
of just over 100 minutes, and that if you walk out before the end of "The
Bad Seed" you'll miss one of the best bits of the movie. I can also make
popcorn (one scoop salt; one measure oil; one squirt of flavouring) and I
can spot a dropped wallet under a theatre seat at twenty paces. It may or
may not therefore come as a surprise to know that in my last year of
university I worked as a duty manager in a small independent cinema in
London.

The job itself was pretty crap; I rolled up in the late afternoon, changed
into a white shirt made from material so cheap and thin that practically
every heartbeat was visible through the fabric, pulled on a slightly shiny
dinner jacket that I shared with the other duty managers, and got ready to
face my public. My public was one of the best things about the job: a
student crowd, it was always fun to cruise the foyer, checking out the cute
boys. And of course there were occasional opportunities for sex: one wintry
Saturday afternoon after a lunchtime weekend showing of "Taxi Zum Klo" I
ended up in the manager's office with the door locked, while a sweet blond
teenager from Edinburgh knelt in front of me and skillfully sucked me off;
silently lapping at my balls and helmet while his wet fingers rhythmically
rubbed up and down my cock shaft, until I gasped and shot my load into his
quiff.

Most often I picked up after the show. The single boys were easy to spot;
they would stand in the emptying foyer, pretending to read through the
forthcoming attraction leaflets. I would approach them, ask them if they
enjoyed the film, a bit of chit-chat, and then explain that I would be
off-duty in half and hour and suggest that perhaps they might like to wait
in the foyer while I locked up the building with Phil, the security guard.

Phil was one of the other good things about the job. He wasn't much older
than me, perhaps 23 or 24; tall and dark, with cropped hair and a vestige
of stubble. The contractors who employed him dressed him in tight navy
uniform trousers that accentuated his beefy, muscular thighs and bulging
calf muscles. He wore a nasty polyester jacket over a white shirt and
clip-on tie; but after the last customers had left he would pull off the
tie, remove the jacket and roll up the sleeves of his shirt, showing tanned
forearms and hairy wrists.

Phil was only six months out of the army, and had been accepted for the
Metropolitan Police. "Can't fucking wait, mush." He was dismissive of the
army. "Mug's game. I mean, I'm starting with the Met as a PC, and I'm
getting two grand more than I was getting after my four years. And I'm not
gonna get myself killed, either. Mad, innit?"

Why had he left the army? A shrug. "Well, it's the money, yeah, but the
missus got fed up with me not being around. And the little ones, as
well--I mean, I see them in the daytime, and I take Jade to nursery most
days. `Course, it'll be different when I'm doing shifts with the police,
but I might as well make the most of it now." There was an absent, slightly
goofy tenderness in his smile when he thought or spoke of his daughters,
two delightful brunette dots who occasionally came to Kid's Club screenings
on weekend mornings with Phil's wife, Janine.

I found Phil's easy physicality quite sexy. He worked out in the local
authority gym a short walk from the cinema. Often he would go for a swim
before starting work, and then turn up at the staff entrance red-faced and
glowing, his hair still damp from the shower. "Getting well in shape," he
boasted to me one afternoon. "Have a feel," he suggested, flexing his
arm. I gingerly felt the warm muscle through his jacket. "Abs," he said. He
undid a shirt button just above his waist before grabbing my hand and
slipping it inside his shirt, pressing my palm to his flat belly. I felt
hot, bare, hard flesh, scattered with short hairs. "What do you think?" he
asked, moving my hand around just above his trouser waistband so that my
fingers grazed the trail of pubes below his navel.

"Very nice," I said, both embarrassed and turned on. He laughed shortly and
released my wrist, quickly buttoning his shirt. "Yeah, I was a right fat
bastard when I came out of the Army." He slapped his belly twice. "Gotta
get in shape for the old Bill, haven't I?"

One afternoon we were both drinking tea in the staff room; there seemed to
be nobody else around, and we were relaxing in shabby easy
chairs. Conversation turned to body modification: piercings and
tattoos. "My mate had one of those bolts through his cock," Phil grimaced;
"his old fella looked like Frankenstein, you know, when he had a hard-on,
like two fucking bolts through his neck." He shook his head, then
brightened. "Did I ever show you my tattoo?"

"No," I said, intrigued.

Without ceremony Phil stood up and loosened his belt. "Don't get any ideas,
mate" he said jokingly as he undid his trousers and let them fall to his
knees. His thighs were broad and muscular, dusted with brown hairs that
grew more thickly further down his legs. Under his trousers he had a pair
of wrinkled grey trunks. The curve of his cock was indistinct, but I could
see the spreading bulge of his scrotum through the cotton flannel. He
swivelled slightly to show me a small regimental badge mid-thigh on one
leg, tattooed in indigo; I was still looking at his cock and balls, and the
half-smile on his face made me suspect that he knew it. The door down the
corridor squeaked and Phil quickly dragged up his trousers and fastened his
belt before sitting down. He grinned, and winked at me as the cleaner and
her daughter entered.

That evening's screening was a turgid French-language film with Juliette
Binoche. Half-full, the auditorium emptied quickly and Phil and I remained
to lock up. The cashier had left shortly after the film began, and the
takings were secure in the absurdly huge Victorian safe in the box
office. After locking the main foyer doors and dragging the iron grille
across, Phil and I walked up through the foyer. I had switched off the
background music, and there was a background hum of air circulating, and
the faintest, visceral rumble of a tube train running somewhere below us.

As part of the building's closing procedure there was a set route for the
duty manager and security guard to take on their final walk through the
cinema, just to make sure that everything was secure: all doors and windows
locked, and nobody hiding behind a potted palm. Foyer and public areas were
first, followed by the theatre and projection box; then into the
administration offices and staff areas; and then I would set the intruder
alarms, and the pair of us would leave quickly through the back door into
an alley that ran alongside the tube station.

Tonight Phil was very chatty. He talked about his forthcoming holiday to
Cyprus with Janine and the girls, to his parents' timeshare; and described
the sauna he was installing at his brother's house. "You'd enjoy that,
wouldn't you?" he asked as we walked up the sweeping staircase towards the
main theatre. "Gays and saunas and that," he added for clarification.

I laughed. "God knows, Phil; I've never been in a sauna."

"Oh yeah? I know you lot, always in saunas and public bogs," he scoffed
mockingly, "down the steam room doing all sorts..."

"You seem to know all about it," I challenged him.

Phil shook his head solemnly, "Yeah, well: you see a lot in the army, don't
you? `Join the army and see the world'. And then kill it or fuck it."

I tried to think of something clever and flirtatious and failed.

Phil stood aside to let me open the main rear doors and we walked into the
cinema. We shuffled along to the back row in the dark and I felt over the
rear wall, which was covered with thick carpet to absorb sound, until my
fingertips found the lighting cupboard. I switched on the house lights and
Phil and I each took an aisle and slowly descended the length of the
cinema, peering along the rows of seats for lost property.

We crossed at the bottom of the cinema, walking in front of the screen
stage and trudging back up the steps of the aisles.

"I mean," Phil said unexpectedly, speaking loudly across the theatre as we
ascended the steps, "I've been around, and all that; and I would never, not
for one moment, think you're gay." He looked across the rows of
seats. "It's not... I mean, I just don't think you act gay or anything. I
don't believe it." He shrugged.

"What, I'm making it all up?" I suggested tartly.

"Nah, I'm just telling you that it's interesting. I'm just... well, I find
it difficult to believe. I mean, personally." We were at the top of the
stairs, and walked together towards the switch cupboard where the lights
were concealed. He deliberately bumped his shoulder against mine. "Go on;
it's bollocks, isn't it?" He looked sideways at me and licked his lips. His
eyes were bright and mischievous. I stopped, and he moved close to me,
almost toe-to-toe; so close that I could smell his deodorant and feel his
faint, warm breath on my lips as he spoke. I imagined that I could feel the
heat radiating from his body.

"I just can't believe it," he repeated softly and deliberately,
half-grinning and shaking his head slowly. "It's bollocks." He stepped back
from me and smiled slyly; he moved his feet apart and I was conscious of
the way this emphasised the tight fit of his trousers over the compact form
of his body; the discreet, flattened bulge at his crotch, and the meaty
curve of his calves and thighs.

I cleared my throat. "Oh yeah--so... what, I've got to prove it?" I
asked, a note of disbelief in my voice. I paused at the switch cupboard and
looked back at him.

Phil stood for a moment, considering, staring at me. He blinked and
narrowed his eyes. "Well", he began softly, "I dunno; how would you prove
it?" He hooked his thumbs into his pockets and shifted slightly where he
stood, rocking backwards and forwards. I tried not to look at his
crotch. "You'd have to convince me," he said slowly. He half-shrugged and
one hand slid into his trouser pocket; I saw the navy material of his
trousers bunch and swell rhythmically as his fingers began a slow massage
at the top of his thigh. "I mean..." he shrugged again and fell quiet. His
eyes challenged mine.

I cleared my throat and took a step towards him. "Well, I guess you
could... I mean, giving another guy a blow-job would probably persuade you,
wouldn't it?" I could feel my cock beginning to harden. I was suddenly
breathless.

"Go on, then," Phil breathed. "You going to get down or what?" He withdrew
his hand from his pocket, and began to use it instead to grope his crotch
through the front of his trousers; I saw him run his forefinger along the
curve of his cock, its bulge evident. Silently I walked towards him and
knelt on the carpet directly in front of him, my chin level with his
belly. "Go on, then," he repeated. "Get it out, then."

I raised my hands to his waist and ran my fingers along the waistband of
his trousers to his belt buckle. Phil sighed and let go of his crotch,
leaving his hands to hang, relaxed, by his sides. The trousers made his
erection jut out in shameless arousal; his hardon tugged upwards as I
unbuckled the stiff leather belt and Phil winced slightly. "Easy, mate" he
said softly. I pulled the belt through the trouser loops and tossed it on
one side. I negotiated the fastening button and then gently pulled down the
zip; the fly parted to reveal the grey trunks bulging with cock; the
buttoned, half-open fly of Phil's underwear awkwardly skewed to one side by
his hard prick, revealing a flash of dull pink flesh straining for
release. Above me, I heard a whistle as Phil exhaled hard through his
teeth. I looked up to see him looking down at me, and smiled. He grinned
back and thrust his hips forward invitingly to send his prick jutting
almost into my face. "Go on, mate," he said again.

As I slid the trousers down Phil's beefy thighs I inhaled a waft of warm
air from his crotch: the sweet floral scent of fabric conditioner overlaid
with a faint meaty, manly smell of ball-sweat, tinged with a sexy animal
sourness that made me want to breathe in and bury my nose between his
legs. As the trousers reached his knees Phil shifted his legs so that the
fabric fell to the floor with a clatter, and his dick waggled in his cotton
trunks. With thumb and forefinger I delicately unbuttoned the fly of his
trunks and his fat, veined dick slipped out, foreskin gathered and hanging
at its tip like a tropical blossom. I slid my left hand up his hard, hairy
leg to his crotch, nosing my fingertips up the leg of his underwear to his
nuts and tickling his ball-hairs before gently holding and squeezing his
warm, moist scrotum.

With the other hand I slid back Phil's wrinkled foreskin, revealing a
glossy pink helmet. His cock had a clean, sour smell. I heard him gasp as I
ran my wet tongue over his helmet, making it slick with spit and lapping up
his sweet-salt pre-cum. I felt his hand on the back of my head, gripping my
hair and roughly caressing the nape of my neck. "Fucking hell," he
breathed; then, more boldly, "not too cheesy, is it?" I shook my head
gingerly, not wanting to stop tasting his prick, and slid my mouth further
up the shaft of Phil's cock towards the rough swirls of brown pubic hair
around its base, gripping his balls and pulling them downwards while I
tongued the flattened underside of his cock. This time he let out a soft
moan which tailed into an embarrassed chuckle, and his other hand joined
the first to guide my mouth. "Fuck me," he breathed. "That is fucking
unreal." I squeezed his bollocks again and heard him gasp. "Yeah, fucking
do that, mate. Keep pulling on my nuts." I tugged again, "Fucking
aces. Yeah, man, that's mental." His insistent hands forced my mouth up and
down the length of his dick until I choked on cock and, with a splutter,
had to pull my lips off his shaft and get breath.

I rocked back on my haunches, fingers still softly caressing Phil's helmet,
slipping backwards and forwards. A transparent trail of spit and precum
looped between my lips and the tip of his cock before breaking and
dropping, catching in droplets on the fuzzy hairs on his thigh. "How's that
then," I asked breathlessly. "Convinced?"

He shook his head. "Never. You're gonna have to keep going, mate." His
fingers bumped against mine as he gripped the base of his dick and waggled
it invitingly. "Really get on my bollocks; get `em nice and wet." He tugged
his hardon upwards to make his nuts more accessible to my mouth, and slid
his feet apart slightly. I licked his ball-sac in long, firm strokes over
its surface, feeling his balls rolling under the skin. After a while I
pulled his bollocks forward, forcing the skin tight and glossy over his
nuts, and tongued them with short, hard strokes that made him whimper with
pleasure and pluck at my hair with his fingers. Then I worked back, down
towards the perineum, hearing his breathing coarsen and become jagged as my
tongue darted closer and closer to the warm, sweaty crack of his arse.

I pulled away as his legs began to quiver. Phil exhaled deeply and I looked
upwards into his grinning face. "Fucking unreal," he repeated, shaking his
head. He ran a finger affectionately down the side of my cheek and then
gripped my hair in a businesslike way, winding his fingers into the short
crop on my crown. "Finish me off, then," he suggested softly, guiding my
mouth back to his helmet. His cock was rock-hard, pulsing with his
heartbeat as I slipped my lips down its length. He shifted his grip to the
back of my head, rhythmically fucking my face, forcing his prick in and out
of my mouth at a pace he dictated. My hands crept up the back of his hard
thighs until my fingers were kneading his buttocks, my thumb grazing up and
down his warm, hairy arse-crack.

I could hear the soft squelching of my mouth and tongue on his cock,
slipping in the warm saliva that lubricated its passage; I could also hear
Phil's whispered commentary as he thrust, "Fucking hell... yeah, fucking
suck it, mate... Jesus. Take my fucking knob in your mouth... give it a
really good...ah! Yeah, mate, I'm gonna fucking spunk my load in your
mouth, make you fucking swallow it...oh, that's it, you dirty fucker, go
on, every fucking inch... that's it... oh fuck..."

When he fell silent and his knees bent slightly, I knew he was going to
shoot. He viciously tugged my head back by the hair so that his warm,
viscous spunk squirted in gobs against the roof of my mouth before falling
into my throat. The last of his load spat over my tongue, and I swirled its
foreign, exotic savour round my mouth before swallowing it with the
rest. Phil held my head in place until I had licked his cock clean and
dutifully swallowed all that he had produced; only then did he relax and
step backwards, shaking his head in disbelief and laughing in a sudden
outburst of tension.

In a Nifty story, this would be only the first chapter in a never-ending
series of erotic adventures. In real life, things are less interesting and
less predictable. I spent the next three months with a permanent hard-on at
work; about twice a week Phil would find an excuse to stand behind me in
the staff room and gently rub his hard cock against my arse, or simply
whisper softly, intimately, "Wanna mouthful later?" and I would know that
we would end the shift gasping in the half-dark, his hands forcing my mouth
down onto his prick. He gave me a couple of souvenirs: a pair of worn
trunks whose flies were stiff and crusty with his pre-cum, the crotch ripe
with the smell of his bollocks; and a knocked-off Tommy Hilfiger T-shirt he
wore to the gym whose slight whiff of stale sweat made me growl with
desire. After three months he was moved to another site in another part of
London; we swapped numbers, but never met up again.

Always happy to receive comments or have enjoyable chats on MSN:
banana-dino@hotmail.co.uk